Enter the Detective
by NiteQueen
Summary: A story looking at how Sherlock should have been resurrected after the Final Problem... enjoy!
1. Letters and Trains

This is my attempt at a Holmes story, After reading The final problem, which I thought was kind of a lame way to bring back the great dective Ithought I'd give it a whirl. Let me know what you think, flames are welcomed so long as you make atleast one suggestion too!

If the characters sound familiar than they aint mine!

Chapter 1 Has been changed as well so you might want to give it a re-read… thanks to all of those who are reading! I really could you all of your imput.

It is with a befuddled mind and a cautious heart that I commit these words to paper. Nearly two years after the death of my beloved, Mary, and three since the untimely demise of my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have become a shell of the man I once was.

I have let my work at the hospital consume me. Alone, stuck in this depressed funk, I often find myself getting lost in the thoughts of a happier, brighter past.

It was on such a day, a rainy day might I add, that I received a message of the most peculiar nature in the afternoon post. The envelope, thick and heavily abused, had clearly traveled far.

Upon opening it, I was presented with a series of train tickets leading to North Ridding, England. Delving deeper into the envelope, I produced a sheet of paper folded thrice over. My curiosity clearly and understandably piqued as I anxiously scanned the note.

"Dr. Watson, … your presence is needed … Sherlock …" I read that word another four times before continuing. Expecting news that his body had been recovered and that a proper burial was to take place, I took a deep breath and continued. "… suffering from mental dementia …" Suffering as in the current state of being? "… your services are required; please follow the timetable …" Numbly staring at the small piece of parchment in my fisted grip, my eyes ran to the bottom of the sheet. Recognizing the precise scrawl, " Sincerely, Mycroft Holmes." I said aloud.

To say the least, I was at the station the following morning, arriving two hours premature, insuring I would not miss my train.

My journey was agonizingly tedious, leaving me to my own devices, and thoughts. Was it truly him, alive? How had he survived, and why now, after three years?

Arriving at my destination, I found a hansom waiting for me. Superstitiously taking a glance around for anything peculiar, I boarded the cab. My mind was far too busy trying to come to terms with what I was about to face to enjoy the beautiful countryside that rolled by.

Far too soon for my liking, I arrived at the gates of a modest estate. The house, set farther back on the property, was in decent condition. My heart leapt to my throat as the carriage pulled up the graveled path. Cautiously descending from the hansom, I could barley ascertain my surroundings.

In my distraught state I neglected to notice Mycroft walking up to me. A large bear of a man, Holmes' brother, Mycroft, is an "accountant" for the government, though some of the accounts he supervises deal with far more then cash tender and bonds.

"Doctor Watson, John; how are you? Your journey went well, I hope?" A swift pat to the back accompanied an iron strong handshake, and while his welcome was as jovial as it normally was there was, something in his mannerisms which gave him a great air of unease.

The dampening, vice-like mitt squeezing mine brought me back to the situation at hand. "Mycroft, is it true? What is this all about?"

"Come Doctor, we have much to discuss," the elder Holmes said, ushering me into the foyer, motioning for the young butler to handle my luggage. "You see, last week, I received this, through not the most reputable of sources."

A torn piece of parchment was thrust into my hand. The incredulous look I gave him prompted him to explain.

"I know, it seems quite unreal, but I went to see for myself and he was there, in that hospital. I do not know the exact origins of that little scrap of paper," angrily gesturing to the parchment, "or why someone feels the need now, suddenly to bring to my attention the fact the my brother is indeed very much alive-" Taking a deep, shuddering breath he continued, "John, for once I do not know what is going on here, but I plan on rectifying that situation. No one, save for the certain members of the staff, you, myself and our mysterious informant, knows that Sherlock is here, I believe you may be able to help him, or I should say I hope you can." At my confused reaction he stated, "Perhaps it is best if you see for yourself."

We walked towards the rear portion of the Holmes House as I looked over the note again. Words cut from a news paper, and meticulously pasted, spoke of Holmes being in a hospital and, as Mycroft said, very much alive. I could hardly fathom what I was about to witness. As we stepped onto the back foyer, the setting sun glared into my eyes; shielding them with my hands, I turned towards a sound off to my right. There sitting in a rocking chair, languidly basking in the afternoon sun, sat Holmes.

He looked the same, perhaps a bit more filled out, no longer looking like the skittish, emaciated skeleton that I entertained in my parlor those five years ago. Upon my arrival, a genuine smile appeared on his face as I walked out into the afternoon sun.

Approaching me he stuck out his hand good-naturedly, "Holmes, is it really you?," I asked, barely believing my eyes. As soon as I had spoken, his face lost some of its luster, confusion disoriented his sharp features.

"I do not understand why everyone insists on calling me by that name, as far as I can remember, granted that's not too far, my name is James Moriarty. Then again Doctor that is why Mycroft contacted you is it not, to help me remember my past?"

The world seemed to spin around me, a white mist blurring my vision, while a defining ringing took residence in my ears. Amnesia, how could this be?


	2. Games are afoot and fall

More Story... yay! This thing has become a monster... and i must finish it.. please help!

as usual not mine dont sue

The night progressed in what one might call a mundane manner if not for the surreal situation I had been thrust into. Though Mycroft, who had the luxury of an additional few days to grow accustom to Holmes' _condition_ it was quite obvious during dinner and the proceeding brandy that the large man was flustered around his brother.

In the days that followed I found myself reading musty tome upon musty tome on dementia till the wee hours of the morning; then testing newly formed hypotheses over a game of chess, which I still lost, on the terrace with "_James_" as he insisted on being called. He seemed perfectly healthy, fit as a fiddle, which he said he does not ever recall being able to play. The only new development I came across in my physical was an angry scar that ran across the lower left side of the skull. I was a bit surprised to find such a blemish buried beneath Holmes' pelt of black hair.

Naturally, when I pried as to where the it had come from, I was graced with the full story, or at least to his best recollection, of what my dear friend had been preoccupying himself with for almost half a decade.

The hospital to which Mycroft alluded to was in actuality a small convent that lay in the valley the falls run into. Some local women found him bloodied and beaten washing up on the river's edge. The sisters of Saint Michael's Charity, did what they could for his battered bones, but he laid in a coma for nearly a month.

"When I awoke, I quickly ascertained as to where I was, the Spartan decor, crucifix, the sound of bells in the distance. That doctor, was the easy part, the who was I left me far more puzzled. " Raking a hand through his slicked back hair, Holmes pause to prod the scar and winced.

"The only thought in my head at the time was a name, which I could only hope was my own, Moriarty, James Moriarty."

Our match that day was disrupted by the thundering rushed footfalls of Mycroft.

"Pack your things chaps, we leave for Reichardhart in an hour."

It would seem that his sources had determined and located the man responsible for sending the letter, and we were to leave for Switzerland before nightfall.

Holmes merely stayed seated, staring intently at the chess set before him. Without a word he moved his Queen in for the coup dee grad, my King merrily rolled off the table as it fell with a quiet clatter.

"Well doctor, this game may have drawn to a conclusion, but it seems that a new one is afoot. Pardon me while I gather my belongings."

Turning on his heel, I was left alone with my toppled king. The great detective was indeed alive; he is simply unaware of it.

Really short I kno ... sorry guys...-Nite


	3. Where three years can go

Wow... thanks so much for reading! I'm really happy that people like this story.

no sue me I'm poor and in college...

Turning on his heel, I was left alone with my toppled king. The great detective was indeed alive; he is simply unaware of it.

Even after all theses years the novelty of the vast and varied amount of connections Mycroft Holmes has hidden up his sleeve has yet to cease amazing me. For such short notice we three found ourselves in a business class sleeper car on a train eastbound for the coast.

The following day we sat, a captive audience to the youngest Holmes as he regaled us with his accounts of the past three years.

Once "James" had recovered and regained his strength, he found himself at a crossroads of sorts.

"While any sort of monetary compensation was out of the question the sisters said I could aid in the tutoring of the children in the town, as a sign of gratitude for their help. I had found myself to be quite adept at the math and sciences, and while I cannot say where I obtained such a high caliber of intellect, I truly had no where else to go. I had deduced that I was not married seeing as I had no wedding band or even the slightest mark of a tan line upon my ring finger. Therefore having no worried and heartbroken wife waiting with baited breath for my safe return, I agreed to stay."

Considering size and location, the small village had an uncanny ability for attracting trouble and intrigue. Holmes told Mycroft and myself of many cases he had unwittingly gotten involved in. It would seem, even to the casual observer, that Sherlock is destined to a life of sleuthing and mystery. Struck by sudden inspiration I told him as such, hoping to jog his memory. The Holmes I was acquainted with, detested the notion that life was left up to fate or destiny. In response I was granted a slight curl of the lip and raised brow, its significance I cannot say or gauge for certain. For the next moment he seemed to find the blurred view out the window far more entertaining than I.

Reaching the coast sooner than I expected, we where brought to a dock with a ship waiting for us. While Mycroft exchanged "hello's" and other niceties associated with greeting old acquaintances on the boat crew; I stood on the dock eyeing the vessel with trepidation. There was a specific reason I joined the Queen's Army in lieu of the navy: I hate the sea.

I shall spare you, the reader, the agonizingly tedious voyage we were forced to endure. Mainly due to my own inability keep my journals, seeing as how a majority of the time I was hunched over the railing, emptying the contents of my stomach.

Once again on terra firma we navigated our way toward our destination. Stepping out of the umpteenth cab we had take that week, my gaze transfixed to the hotel. The very hotel which I stayed at on my previous visit; never could I have imagined myself returning to this place, but then, up until a few weeks ago I could neither fathom seeing my friend Sherlock alive again either.

In the morning we were to find the fellow whom Mycroft's many connections said was the source of the letter explaining Holmes' whereabouts. If this was indeed the case, it would be a truly unique and enlightening day.

At dinner, the evening was spent grilling Holmes as to whether any of the surrounds were familiar. I hoped, prayed, that being here would trigger something, anything. In the past weeks, drips and drabs of Sherlock's personality seeped through, only to be drowned by James. To say the situation was frustrating would be a gross understatement. Upon the fifth negative response, I conceded defeat for the evening. Tomorrow promised to bring new light to this whole maddening situation.

phew... now what? personally I have no effin' clue and i really need to get this done b/c it is taking up a good portion of my time! so please click the little button and make a review... hell even throw in a suggestion or eight!Nite


	4. Cadavers & Blondes

More Story! Thanks to all of you who reviewed! I might actually finish this one!

With the dawn came a new day's light and boughs of disappointment. I was woken up to the wood splintering bangs of Mycroft's heavy hand upon my door. "Doctor? John?" his voice sounded subdued and demure, "there has been a new development in this ludicrous farce we have set ourselves upon. There is something you will be needing to look at." The lack of emotion in Mycroft's voice was a testament to how physically and mentally exhausted he really was.

Unsteadily padding through the dark to the source of the ruckus, I successfully located the knob on the second attempt I wretched the door open. The Hall lights happily assaulted my unaccustomed retinas. On the other side of the open door, I stood face to chest with Mycroft.

"Well now. For a moment I began to think that you too, might be dead."

My mind, far too sleep-muddled to fully comprehend the sarcastic remark, lagged a full three beats behind. For by the time I asked who had died, my only response was the accountant's broad back turning around the corner. Gathering myself into a dressing robe and cramming feet into slippers, I clumsily made my way to the elder Holmes' quarters.

Once in his rooms he explained what this "new development" entailed.

"Kelly, William James Kelly. The man who we were to question, He has been found dead in a flat near the edge of the town. A friend of mine, the constable, is allowing us until nine o'clock to become "better acquainted" with Mr. Kelly. And you, Watson, we need you to tell us how he perished. It seems highly unfortunate for us, not to mention Mr. Kelly, that within twenty four hours of our arrival, he is no longer among the world of the living."

William Kelly. What a small world we live in indeed! To say the least I was caught off guard to see the fellow who lay upon the cold table. He was none other than a suspected henchman of Moriarty's. Though he was never officially convicted, local police speculated that he laid in wait near the falls incase things did not turn out like Moriarty had planned. As it would seem, no man's plans bore fruit that day.

As I am a gentleman, I will not go into the gruesome business of autopsies. But, I was able to find the culprit, so to speak. Cyanide. The suspect, in all likelihood, dissolved the deadly powder into Kelly's grog, which liberal amounts he partook in.

Now the true question lies in why Kelly never finished his job while Holmes was incapacitated, and why had he chosen now to send word of Holmes? Who had thought it necessary to do away with him? Was the Napoleon of crime still alive?

Over tea that morning, after taking proper sanitary steps of course, I enlightened the Holmes brothers to my discoveries. I went further, explaining probable reasons for Kelly's involvement and murder. Finally I shared my deduction that if it were possible for Sherlock to survive, then why not Moriarty as well; and if not the man himself perhaps an imposter after his former power as King of crime.

Sherlock discretely read the folded newspaper on the table in font of him while I reported my findings. He would occasionally glance up, a queer expression painted on his angled features; one might describe it as a proud or smug. To me its significance was lost.

That afternoon Holmes suggested we visit the falls in hopes that he might find something familiar or remember his last visit there. Dutifully following our guide we trekked through the wilderness until we came to a clearing. The sound of the falls persistently in the back ground, Holmes and I ventured closer to the precipice.

"Holmes," no response. Stifling a growl of frustration I continued, "James, is any of this familiar? Had you come up here to this area while you lived in the village? Have you no sense of déjà vu? James? " Still no response, I followed his gaze down the cliff. An angry frothy mix of water and mist rose above the roaring falls. The mess those poor women found upon discovering Holmes must have been a sight.

Out of my pocket I retrieved a silver cigarette case-the very case he left three years ago upon the large rock to my left. I had given up. My friend may indeed be alive but he is lost to me, his brother, and to himself. Placing the rolled paper limply between my lips I causally offered one to the familiar stranger next to me. He reached for one but halted to inspect the case, cocking his head to the right. Nostrils flare as the aroma of the cloves waft to his nose as he handled the case. A small smile appeared on his face and for a mere fraction of a moment I saw Sherlock in those piercing grey eyes. As sudden as it came, his attention was drawn away from the metallic case as a feminine voice was in the background.

Again, mimicking his actions, I glance away to see a young woman walking up the steep path from the village. She calls out to Holmes.

"James! You have returned! I heard that you had come back, and I just had to find you." The youthful blonde stood tall, no more than 3 inches shy of six feet. Hands dirty from scaling the path and brow damp with exertion, the woman approached and embraced Holmes. The looks of shock upon Mycroft's and my face were identical.

More to come soon I promise! Nite


	5. Up in smoke so to speak

Okay guys… this is it… no more it's all done … for now anyways, I may come back and expand here or there if I get the chance yet right now i gotta deal with finals, so once again thanks to all you loyal readers!

… Hope you all like it.

Once our brows descended from our hairlines we turned to Holmes looking for an explanation.

"Doctor, Mycroft, this is Katherine. She was one of my students. Quite the bright star when it comes to mathematics she is. Katherine, this is my brother Mycroft and my friend Dr. John Watson." He gestured towards each of us respectively, in his hand the cigarette case gleamed in the sun.

Katherine's eyes momentarily resembled saucers and were entranced by the glimmering metal, but soon a mischievous look replaced the awe.

"Oh I'm so happy you're back! You must come down to visit us. Come, you and your friends, Sister Ruth would be so happy to see you. Stay for lunch, please!" The perky lass lead us down the path into the village, never once allowing the serene silence of nature to bare down upon us.

Surely Holmes could not put up with such a woman for nearly three years, the man who neither trusted nor acknowledged a member of the female persuasion, had befriended a mathematical prodigy and a twit.

At the conclusion of a light lunch we sat around enjoying another of Katherine's stories. Now from his own pocket Holmes produced the silver case. Opening it, he presented it to the tottering girl-woman to his left. Again a strange air came over her as she greedily reached for the case. Seemingly unaware to her peculiar mood swing, Sherlock snapped the case shut, Cheshire grin firmly plastered to his face.

"Tut tut Katie, not offering one to your guest first, it's no wonder no man will have you. Such poor manners for a host," he teased. Giving her an affectionate squeeze, he flipped open the case again and offered one to Mycroft and myself. Returning to the Blonde, he produced one for her and proceeded to light it. I must admit with some satisfaction that she gave to a fit of coughs after her first drag.

"Potent stuff," she wheezed but continued.

"You might say that," Holmes replied.

The conversation drew on a bit longer, Katherine hastily burned through the rest of her cigarette. Holmes tossed the case onto the counter and lounged back, with the same inane smile upon his thin lips. As if in tandem, Katherine eagerly jumped, out of her seat.

"Oh my James, you're quite right. Where are my manners? Allow me to bring out the biscuits." her voice irritatingly saccharine, "Excuse me one moment gents… oh no need to get up I shall be right back."

Mycroft trying to come to terms with whom his brother had become, asked how long he and Katherine had been courting. Holmes' response that they were merely friends had seemed to put the large man at peace.

The clatter of shoes signaled the return of Katherine. We stood as she entered.

"No fast moves gentlemen," it was now my turn to imitate a tea-ware. Katherine stood in the door way straight faced and lips pursed. The cigarette case securely tucked into her belt, and more importantly, a revolver in hand.

"Ah, my poor boy. You fool. I almost wish that you had your memory. It would make this moment all the more satisfactory. Alas, one cannot ask for the world now, can she? You see, these men are right, you're name is not James Moriarty, but Sherlock Holmes, _the great detective_." For such a small stature, her voice bellowed with hatred, she continued, "The genius to whom no mystery is unsolvable, the murderer! You don't deserve to even assume his name, the name of a Moriarty." The gun rattled in her hand as she cocked the barrel.

"He was obsessed with you, his equal, everyone paled in comparison to you, even me! His own daughter! You ruined everything, all those years of planning all his notes; it would have been the perfect crime, one for the ages, a true show of his intellect."

"He stole them!" She shouted at me, waving the pistol in Holmes direction, "He stole them from my father and hid them in this little case, and then killed him! But I'm going to kill you and change all of that now; I have the plans, the funds and soon, no meddling little detective to muck things up. I'm going to finish what my father started; it would seem that you have indeed lost to a Moriarty Sherlock. Goodbye."

Shock kept me rooted in my place. This annoying twit, was in fact the progeny to James Moriarty? It was in that moment the pieces fell into place. She had poisoned Kelly and most likely instructed him to send the letter. She needed the silver case, which she had deduced was in my possession, to finish her father's work and reclaim the throne as the heir to the king of crime.

My thoughts were once again interrupted.

"Well done Katherine," it was Holmes who languidly arose from his seat. "You were correct in most of your assumptions, but not all of them. You see the case at one point may have indeed contained your father's heist plans, yet as far as I can remember and yes, I _do _remember, it seems to me we all but polished them up after lunch today."

The blonde's eyes darted back and forth as Sherlock's words sunk. We had burnt the plans, unwittingly, and she had helped! Her fierce rage was tangible,

"This is not over Holmes!" without warning she blindly shot off three rounds and fled.

In the unnatural quiet that followed the shots, we three hastily checked to see if we had gotten in the way of the stray bullets. A hiss revealed that Holmes had not been as lucky and Mycroft and I. Upon my inspection, I was thankful to find it had merely grazed his side. I looked down at Holmes as he sat back down to take one last drag from his cigarette.

"Holmes, Sherlock? Is it truly you? How, how did you know?" I stared at him baffled.

Sighing, he blew a smoke ring, and rubbed his chin as if in deep thought. A sly smirk appeared on his face as he said, "That my dear Watson is elementary."

But that is a story for another time.

FIN

Well… that's all she wrote! I hope it was enjoyable and everyone had a good time! So until next time detectives … ta-ta! Nite


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